The Ponds Take Manhattan
by Wyndes
Summary: Spoilers through Season 7, Episode 5. No money, no ID, no place to pee - surviving in 1938 Manhattan might not be as easy as Amy and Rory thought in "The Missing Scene." Still, time travelers do have certain advantages when it comes to facing the unexpected.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Not my characters, obviously, but oh, how I wish they were! This story really starts earlier, in one called "The Missing Scene" but I couldn't continue that one without changing its title, since this is no longer just a missing scene. But you might want to read that one first. It's quick. If not, short version is that Rory thinks being trapped in NYC, city of dreams, land of opportunity, is more of a fresh start on a real life than disaster._

* * *

"You should have bought me a better engagement ring."

"Hey," Rory protested. His arm where it was resting on her shoulders tightened around her. "That was two month's salary. Not my fault that I was earning peanuts. Nurse's aides don't make much."

Amy held up her hand and looked at her ring. In the lightening sky of dawn, she could just barely see the sparkle of the tiny diamond. "We should have waited until you were through school."

"Part-time nurses aren't rolling in it, either. Do you mind?" His tone was worried, a little defensive, as if it really was the ring that mattered to her.

"Of course not, idiot." She elbowed him comfortably. "I love my ring. But we don't have any American money. If it was worth more, we could hock it."

"Oh, right."

She knew that he'd been thinking, too, trying to plan their next moves. They'd walked out of the park in the darkness, but it had been an easy, unspoken agreement that had them sitting on the nearest bench to wait for the light of day.

"It would have been a good idea to wear expensive jewelry," she said thoughtfully. "Just in case."

"Hindsight. 20/20." Rory shrugged in agreement.

Amy leaned her head into his shoulder. "It's not going to be easy. No money, no ID."

"We can try the British consulate," Rory suggested. "If we tell them we were mugged, our money and papers stolen—"

"Do people get mugged in the 1930's?" Amy asked dubiously, interrupting him. "And even if they do, won't the consulate ask lots of questions? They might want us to call home for help. That could be a bit awkward. Hi, Gran, you don't know me, I won't be born for another forty-five years or so, but would you mind wiring a bit of cash?"

Rory snorted. "Yeah, that's not real likely."

"None of my relations are likely to help a total stranger with a bonkers story about being lost in time. Besides, it's still the depression, isn't it? Even if they wanted to help, I doubt they could." Half Scotland had been on the dole during the depression and Amy's family had been no exception. Her grandparents still pinched every penny until it screamed.

"1938." Rory sounded thoughtful, before swearing abruptly. "Hell. We definitely can't go to the consulate. If it's autumn, it's right when Chamberlain's trying to butter up Hitler. Peace in our time and all that jazz."

"How do you know that?" Amy questioned. Neither she nor Rory had exactly been A-levels in history. She knew bits and pieces, but memorizing dates had never been her thing.

"Lived through it, remember?" His response was brief, his voice grim. "The consulate's likely to be paranoid, looking for spies around every corner. No, it's out."

"Even if they thought we were spies, they might send us back to London." Amy wasn't sure that she wanted to go back to England, but they should at least consider the option.

"We're not going to London," Rory said firmly. "I did the Blitz once. I'm not doing it again."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "If it's 1938, maybe we should make another try for Hitler. This time we might kill him instead of saving his life."

"He's well-guarded. And by the time we get enough money together to get to Germany, the war will probably have started." Rory shook his head. "Not a good idea."

Amy sighed. Her earlier euphoria at being with Rory was wearing off. They were lucky that the night had been temperate, but she was starting to get hungry. And she really needed to pee. She wondered if New York City in the 1930s had public loos. Looking for the nearest bush held no appeal, but if she had to, she should go now, before the sun got too much higher.

"We should find a library," Rory continued. "Brush up on our current events. Figure out the lay of the land."

A car drove by them, the third or fourth that they'd seen. The quiet corner of the city where they'd found themselves was starting to wake up. Across the street, a man unlocked the door of a run-down café.

"We need money, Rory. Food, a place to stay."

"Jobs," he offered. "We'll be able to find work here. Nursing can't have changed all that much. Well, of course, it probably has changed quite a bit. I'm sure the technology is different. But bedpans and baths, those have to be much the same. I might have to work as a nurse's aide for a while, get familiar with the procedures and maybe some of the terminology."

He kept talking but Amy had stopped listening. Her eyes had narrowed. The man across the street had turned on the lights inside the café. He was moving about, crossing from tables to counters, and then disappearing into the back, but she wasn't looking at him.

The glow of the light silhouetted the decorated window glass. The faded and peeling dark lettering was almost illegible, but a pattern painted on the lower half of the glass in gold was still distinct. A pattern of overlapping, intricate circles.

Amy clutched Rory's lower arm. "Do you see that?" Her words were breathless.

"See what?" he asked, looking about them, instantly worried. "Did you spot a weeping angel?"

"No, no," she assured him hurriedly. "That café." She gestured toward it with her chin.

"Across the street?" he asked dubiously. "The ivercon afe?" He read the name aloud.

Amy jumped to her feet. "That's not a C, silly."

"Well, no," he agreed, following suit more slowly. "The C has fallen off."

"No," she told him impatiently. "I mean, yes, the C has fallen off, but the letter in the middle of the name. It's not a C."

"Oh, you're right. It's backwards." He sounded puzzled.

Amy slipped her hand into his and started pulling him with her, hurrying to get across the street. Her heart was racing, the thrill of discovery sending adrenalin pouring through her system. "The letter is only partway gone."

"What?"

"That is the bottom half of a capital S," she said triumphantly as they reached the window.

"IverSon Café?" he asked, still not understanding.

Amy laughed with delight. Standing in front of the window, she reached up and traced the letters. "Look at it, Rory. Really look at it."

He stared at it blankly and shook his head, then looked back at her and shrugged helplessly. "What do you want me to see?"

"The broken S isn't the only missing letter," she told him, putting her hand on the glass and spreading her fingers wide. "There's a spot here at the beginning where a letter would fit and another at the end."

He frowned, looking puzzled, and then light began to dawn.

"It can't be a coincidence," he said.

"Not with the name in Gallifreyan right underneath," Amy agreed, touching the golden circles. "The River Song Café." She took a deep breath, suddenly almost afraid. Against all the odds, could River have found a way to rescue them?

"Come on." This time Rory was tugging Amy, dragging her suddenly heavy steps toward the door of the café.

"Rory, I—" she started. And then she stopped. What did she want to say? She wanted to be rescued, didn't she? Wanted to go back to their lives? Wanted to continue their travels with the doctor, their adventures in time and space? She did, didn't she?

"What?" He paused.

"Nothing." She shook her head, but he didn't move, still looking at her, his expression worried. She tried to smile. "Later. Let's see. . ." She let the words trail off.

He nodded, his face still serious. She could see that he wanted to ask her more, but he would wait for her to be ready. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to say, just that she had had a momentary impulse to run away. Or maybe just to run in a different direction. Sometime in the night she'd grown used to the idea that she and Rory would be living real life together, building their own future. That they would stop their running, once and for all.

Opening the door of the restaurant, they stepped inside. It was clean, but shabby, the fixtures worn, the linoleum faded. Rory called out, "Hello?"

"We're not open yet. Come back later." The voice answering from out of sight sounded old, tired, unfriendly.

"We're looking for, uh, the owner," Rory called back.

"Not here." The answer was abrupt. "Come back later."

Rory and Amy exchanged glances. They could go back and sit on their bench and wait. But Amy really needed to pee. Taking the initiative, she called out herself, "When will she be here?"

"Never." The answer moved from unfriendly to hostile. The man still hadn't come out from the back room. "Go away."

Amy bit back her sigh. She looked at Rory. He shrugged.

"We'll leave," Amy called, "But do you mind if I use your loo first?"

"My . . . what?" Suddenly, an old man appeared. He was balding, stooped, his shoulders slumped, the white apron he wore stained and yellowing, but his eyes wide. "Say 'at again," he ordered, his New York accent suddenly strong.

"Can I use your loo?" Amy felt vaguely embarrassed to be asking, but she really needed to go.

"The toilet," Rory offered helpfully.

"Red hair, funny accent, hooker clothes," the old man said, as if to himself.

"Hey," Amy protested, defensively giving a tug to the bottom of her short black skirt. It wasn't her fault that she'd been unexpectedly transported to an era that didn't appreciate cute clothing.

"Praise the lord." The old man ignored her, raising his folded hands to the heavens. "Praise the lord." Then hurriedly, he was peeling his apron off and thrusting it at Rory. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a heavy key ring.

"Truck's in the alley," he muttered, holding up a key and waggling it as if to demonstrate. He shifted to the next key. "Apartment upstairs. It's been empty for a while, might need some dusting." He held up a third key, then a fourth. "Front door, back door." He handed the key ring to Amy, who took it, blinking in surprise.

"Regulars start showing up at seven. The rush is over by eleven. We're closed on Sundays." He rattled off information as he moved around the restaurant, behind the counter, back in front, disappearing into the back, reappearing. "Grills whatcha might call temperamental. Try not to burn the bacon. People get real pissy about that."

Picking up a hat and a coat from a rack by the door, he stuck the hat on his head, and looking almost jaunty, added, "Don't let the suppliers rip you off. That George McClellan will jack the prices every chance he gets. Any questions?"

"Uh, yes, what are you doing? What are you talking about?" Rory sputtered.

The old man beamed at him. "Tell the boss lady—if ya' ever see her—that we're even now and that if I never lay eyes on her again, it'll be decades too soon."

"Wait, what?" He had to be talking about River, Amy knew, but still, his quick actions had her totally off-balance. "Where are you going?"

"Ha." The man backed out of the door. "You're here and I'm retired. Praise the lord," he repeated. "Praise the lord!"

Amy looked down at the keys in her hand and then she looked over Rory. His mouth was open and he seemed to be as dumbfounded as she felt.

"What just happened?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Did that man just—"

"I think he just gave us a restaurant," she told him. "And a truck. And an apartment."

"And customers," Rory protested. "And a, a temperamental grill. And suppliers!"

Amy grinned at him. She had no idea how River had set this up or whether it had felt like an incredible long shot when she did. They could easily have missed the sign if they'd walked by in the dark. And yet, River must have believed they'd be looking for ways to communicate, that they wouldn't just assume that their friends would abandon them to their fate. If they checked the phone book, would they find the name of the café there?

A business, a home – it was obvious that River didn't expect them to be leaving New York any time soon. But at the moment, it didn't matter. Amy leaned into Rory and gave him a long, lingering kiss. "Don't burn the bacon," she told him as she pulled away. "I'm going to find our new loo."

And as she walked away, she wondered. What other messages had River left for them in New York? And how would they find them?


	2. Chapter 2

Amy turned the page of the newspaper and started skimming down the personal ads.

"Um, excuse me, ma'am." A boy's slow southern drawl interrupted her.

Ma'am.

Goddamn Americans. She wasn't old enough to be a 'ma'am.' She wasn't fat enough to be a 'ma'am.' She wasn't ugly enough to be a 'ma'am.' She wasn't. . .

"Yes?" She tried to smile. Tips, she reminded herself. Tips had come in very useful during the past two weeks. Okay, by her standards a quarter was nothing, but in 1938, the occasional man who'd dropped an extra quarter on the counter because she'd flirted when she poured the coffee had been buying the groceries.

"Is this – do you – are you–" The boy stuttered, not saying anything coherent, and Amy's eyes narrowed.

He didn't look right.

Well, he looked fine. A teenager, with dark, curly hair, beautiful deep brown eyes, lovely toasted caramel skin – the girls were undoubtedly all over him. But that jacket – did they wear black leather jackets in the 1930s?

She reached out and touched it. He flinched back, stepping away from her, and she quickly pulled her hand away.

"Sorry," she said brightly. Her smile was no more real but much wider. "What can I do for you?"

"I—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Sorry, I think I must have made a mistake."

He turned away and took two steps toward the door.

"Did River send you?" Amy's words were an impulse, nothing more. She and Rory had barely gotten established in 1938 themselves. It had been two weeks since they'd found themselves trapped there.

Two long, long weeks.

Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Her arms hurt. Waitressing in a busy diner was something close to hell.

But not as close as cooking in a diner was. Rory had done his best to master the temperamental grill but cooking was never going to be his gift. He was still just as likely to burn the bacon as finish it off perfectly and if Amy hadn't been so much better at handling angry customers, she would have taken the job of cook away from him at least a week ago.

The boy whirled around. He swallowed hard. "I—do y'all know River?"

Amy's smile got real. "Something like that," she said wryly. "Tell me what you need."

The boy burst into tears.

Amy froze. But only for a second. Then she zipped around the edge of the counter, and, one arm around his shoulders, drew the boy to the back booth, the quietest, most private part of the restaurant.

"You're in the right place," she told him, keeping her voice calm and consoling. "Everything is going to be fine."

What the hell had River done? This boy was a child. Why was he here? What did he need? And why the hell had River thought that she'd be able to help him, Amy thought frantically. She and Rory were barely figuring out life in 1938 themselves.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

The boy was wiping his eyes with a teenager's furious embarrassment at having been caught crying. "No," he said, but Amy could hear the lie in his voice.

"Rory's okay on pancakes," she told him. "How about a nice plate of those, maybe a little bacon, much riskier, on the side, and then we'll talk?"

The boy looked confused, maybe even suspicious, but Amy just waved at Rory. "Oi," she called out. "Flapjacks with piggy over here."

Rory looked over his shoulder at her and waved his spatula in acknowledgement before turning grimly back to the grill. It was almost eleven and the restaurant's breakfast rush was over which meant that he'd have time to notice when the bacon was burning. He'd figure it out.

They'd both been trying to figure out a great deal since they'd found themselves in 1938. Amy had to be grateful to River that they had a place to sleep, a roof over their head, food to eat, a toilet – but she could and did wish that their daughter had found some way to leave them clearer guidance.

Would River be back for them? Were they waiting for rescue? Or were they trapped in 1938 forever? It felt as if they'd been madly treading water since the day the angels had sent them back here. Finding the restaurant had been amazing. Running it had been more like a chaotic game where they didn't know half the rules.

The big mistake, Amy knew now, had been letting Ralph leave the first day. That and when his waitress, Imogen, had arrived, they hadn't known to tell her that she absolutely could not possibly ever leave them. If she could go back to any moment in her life and rewrite it, the moment wouldn't be when she'd chased Rory back in time, Amy knew, but when she'd blithely told Imogen that she could manage and let the mousy woman walk away.

"River said," the boy gasped, swallowing hard, "that my mom would be here. You're not her, are you?"

Amy froze. The boy . . . but no. She knew what had happened to her daughter. This boy wasn't her son.

"No," she said gently. "But tell me more."

He scowled at her.

"I'll help you find her," Amy said.

He looked away. Amy could feel his distrust. She banged her hand down on the table, hard. He glanced back at her, startled.

"Don't fuck with me, kid," she ordered. "I'm about to feed you free pancakes and free bacon, and believe me, I've figured out how nice that is of me in 1938. River was a magic word, but it only gets you so far. Politeness gets you the rest of the way."

He stilled and then smiled, ducking his head awkwardly. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Assume I'm willing to believe anything," Amy said, her voice as soft as she could make it. She glanced around, a little warily, but the restaurant had cleared out after the breakfast rush had ended and no one was close enough to hear them. "Anything at all," she added pointedly. "And then tell me your story."

He looked back up at her through gorgeous dark eyelashes. "Anything?"

"It's going to be tough to shock me," Amy assured him.

He licked his lips.

The bell over the door jangled.

Amy bit back her sigh. The gentleman who had just entered the diner was one of those magical quarter tippers. Well-dressed, balding, a little overweight, and much too friendly. Hell.

Yet she and Rory hadn't found the magical bank account that would pay for the groceries. And without supplies, the restaurant would quickly close.

"Hold that thought," she told the pretty boy. "And do not leave." She pointed at him and glared. Was it paranoid of her to think that he'd sneak away as soon as her eyes weren't on him? Maybe. And yet, paranoia felt appropriate.

Pasting a firm smile on her face, she slid out of the booth, and greeted her most rewarding customer. "Mr. Smith," she hailed him. "Back for some more of that incredible bacon?"

He looked momentarily appalled, and then, seeing the smile on her face, relaxed, letting his lips quirk into a brief smile of his own. "Your coffee is quite fine," he murmured, allowing her to show him to one of the empty booths. "Has Imogen . . ."

Amy shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid not."

They exchanged pleasantries, Amy giving him her best smile as she poured him a cup of coffee, and took his lunch order. A simple tuna fish sandwich. She was grateful it was nothing that needed to be grilled, but then Mr. Smith had been coming in every weekday for the past two weeks. He'd learned the hard way.

"Order up," she called out as she stuck the slip of paper to the line. Rory was in the midst of successfully flipping a pancake, a grin curving his lips.

"I think I'm starting to get the hang of this," he answered.

"Are you burning the bacon?" she asked automatically. She suspected that grill was cursed or something. It had a magical ability to catch meat on fire.

"It's gorgeous!" he responded with satisfaction, holding the spatula in one hand as he picked up tongs in the other. "Aw, hell," he added.

Amy glanced over just in time to see the fatty meat burst into flames. She sighed and turned away, running a quick eye over the restaurant. Rory would put out the fire. He'd had practice. With any luck, he'd even get it out without ruining the meat. At 38 cents a pound, they couldn't afford to waste it.

Within minutes, she'd refilled the coffee on their last few breakfast lingerers, served Mr. Smith, and was sliding into the booth across from the boy, shoving the full plate of pancakes and bacon across to him. "Talk while you eat," she ordered him.

The few minutes it had taken her to get his food ready had given her time to get nervous. The boy was clearly in trouble, but what kind of trouble? Could it be weeping angels? Daleks? Cybermen?

He started eating without pause, mumbling her through a mouthful of pancake, "I don't know where to start."

She'd been right that he was hungry, Amy thought with a little satisfaction. Maybe she could manage this restaurant business after all. "Try the beginning," she suggested.

"I can't rightly say I know when that'd be," he admitted

"Focus on the important stuff," Amy suggested. "How'd you get into trouble?"

He looked up at her and grinned, although his eyes stayed wary. "I robbed a bank."


	3. Chapter 3

"You robbed a—" Surprise had Amy's voice rising, but she broke off her words as his eyes widened in dismay. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and she reached out to put her hand over his to soothe him. She didn't want him to panic and think she'd turn him in. She'd just been startled. He was so young.

But he pulled his hand back as if hers was made of fire, looking around the room frantically as if to see whether anyone was watching them. "Don't do that," he hissed at her.

"Do what?" she asked, confused. He was the one who'd robbed the bank – shouldn't she be the one who was pulling away? But no, she tried to comfort him and he acted as if she had the plague.

"That's how I got into trouble to begin with."

Amy scowled at him. "A girl touching your hand forced you to rob a bank?" Her Scottish accent got very strong when she was being sarcastic.

"Not so much touching my hand," he answered, sounding miserable. He began to shovel food into his mouth as if she was going to steal the plate out from under him any second.

Amy blinked. Once. Twice. "Touching other places?" she asked delicately. How old was this boy?

"It wasn't like that," he protested. "I'd known her my whole life. We weren't doing anything wrong."

"The path from 'not doing anything wrong' to 'robbed a bank' isn't clear to me," Amy snapped, before taking a deep breath. She poked her head out of the booth and took a quick glance around the restaurant, confirming that no one needed anything or was close enough to overhear them. Rory was standing by Mr. Smith's table, refilling his coffee. Comforted that he had everything under control, she brought her head back into the booth. "How did you meet River?"

"She found me in jail." Pancakes almost gone, the boy picked up a piece of charred bacon and eyed it uncertainly.

In jail? Amy thought. Well, River was certainly familiar with the inside of a jail. Amy supposed she could have encountered the boy there somehow. But did they really lock children up in maximum security prison in the 51st century?

"Stormcage?" she asked, naming the prison that had been River's home, more-or-less, for a while.

He looked blank and shook his head, before crunching into the bacon. "Montgomery County jail, ma'am. In Alabama."

Amy felt a mix of exasperation and relief. At least River wasn't expecting her to deal with a maximum-security prison escape. Although if his escape was in the present day, would the police be bursting into the restaurant any minute? "When?"

"When what?" He leaned back in the seat, looking tired.

"When did you meet River and when did you escape?"

"Last night," he replied promptly. "She told me she'd send me to a safe place, and then I was here, just outside. It was dark and quiet. I walked around for a while, got lost. Finally found my way back here just now."

"What year was it?" Amy asked.

"Ma'am?" The smile accompanying the question was puzzled.

"What year were you in jail?" Amy repeated, trying to stay patient.

The boy looked more confused than ever. "This year, ma'am. Just now. I was in jail yesterday, 'cause Mr. Morgan said I was trying to rob the bank. But really it was because Katie Wilkins kissed me and Ms. Longworth saw her and screamed."

Amy sighed. With food in his stomach, he was getting talkative but he still wasn't making any sense at all. "Was it 1938?"

He chuckled. "Of course not, ma'am. I wasn't even born yet in 1938."

"How old are you?" she asked him.

"14, ma'am."

Amy pressed her fingers against her temples. She felt the beginning of a stress headache coming on. "What year do you think it is?"

"It's 1953, ma'am." He laughed. "June 17th. I just graduated from 8th grade. I've got me a job on the Boudreau farm, and if I hadn't stopped to say good-bye to Katie Wilkins, I'd be there now."

"Today's date," she told him, "is October 29, 1938."

His smile faded. "Ma'am?" She could see from the way he was looking at her that he'd decided she might be crazy.

"Stop calling me that," she finally snapped. God, she hated that word.

"Yes, ma'… um," he responded obediently, but all humor was gone now. His dark eyes were wide and worried and he looked as if his pancake might be just about to come back up. "1938?"

She nodded at him, and then, seeing his doubt, slipped out of the booth and went to fetch the newspaper. She laid it in front of him. He looked at the date atop the front page and then back up at her.

"How did I get here?" he whispered. "And why?"

"Did River say anything? Give you anything?"

He shook his head emphatically. "She didn't give me nothin'. She said—well, she talked a lot. I don't remember all she said. It was—I was scared." He looked down as he said the last words, almost mumbling them to his plate.

Amy reached out again, automatically wanting to put an arm around him to comfort him, then dropped it. "You still hungry?" she asked briskly.

"I could eat more," he admitted.

"I'll get you some more food," she said. "You wait here. And don't worry, we'll figure this out."

As she hurried back to the open kitchen, Rory glanced in her direction and raised his eyebrows in question. Three men had come in and were seating themselves at the counter, a sign that the lunch crowd was about to start arriving.

"We've got trouble," she muttered to him in passing, before smiling cheerfully at the customers, pulling menus out from underneath the counter and handing them out with friendly greetings.

Rory stilled, spatula in hand. He waited until she'd stepped away and then said, "What sort of trouble?"

Amy tilted her head toward the boy in the back booth. "River." Rory looked confused, so she added the only details she understood. "She sent him here." Glancing at the customers, she raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes meaningfully as she said, "From elsewhere."

Rory chuckled as if she were joking and then seeing that she was serious, sobered. "But that's impossible."

Amy shrugged.

"But—" Rory looked at the customers seated nearby and tried an awkward smile before grabbing Amy's arm and tugging her away, down the counter and toward the back room. In a whisper, he said, "That can't be. New York City in this now is a time vortex or something, remember? No getting in or out. Paradoxes and . . ." He waved his hands expressively. "Timey-wimey stuff."

Amy spread her hands wide. "I don't think the kid was lying when he told me he was from 1953. Or that River got him out of jail."

"Jail!"

Amy shushed him automatically, checking to see if anyone had overheard, as the front door open and a couple entered, the man in a suit and tie with a topcoat and fedora, the woman in a red jacket with a flared waist, a tight-fitting red skirt, and a matching hat perched high on perfect curls.

Amy sighed in mild envy, glancing down at the shapeless navy rayon dress she was wearing. She'd had to buy clothes their second day here—they hadn't exactly packed for the trip—but this neighborhood didn't boast any fashionable stores. She'd had to take what she could get. If they were really staying in 1938, she definitely wanted better clothes. Although first they had to get more money.

Maybe having a bank robber around would come in handy? The thought was facetious, but the envy wasn't. It had been a long time since Amy had had to worry about money. She'd really been hoping that River would somehow manage to give them a little more help. Not that she was complaining—she could easily imagine how much worse it could get from seeing the threadbare clothes and pinched faces of some of the people who ordered the least expensive meal on the menu, the peanut butter sandwich for fifteen cents.*

The male half of the well-dressed couple had held the door for his friend, but once inside the diner, he led the way, straight toward the back of the restaurant. They weren't touching, but Amy could see, from the laughing way the woman looked up into his eyes, that they were romantically involved. She smiled, a little wistful. Happy people, with money, in love—it was sweet.

And then the man spoke.

Amy couldn't believe her ears.

* * *

_*I tend to get a little obsessive about my research, but if you, lovely reader, are equally research fascinated, you absolutely must spend a fun hour or two browsing at menus-dot-nypl-dot-com. It's a collection of over 45,000 historical menus. Apparently, back in 1900, Miss Frank E. Buttolph (seriously, that's her real name) decided that the library should collect menus. She personally added over 25,000 of them to the collection. The library is in the process of putting the menus online. I decided to use the one from the Pig'n Whistle of 1939, since it had the lowest prices. _

_And if you're interested in the clothes, the best site I found with pictures of dresses from the 1930s was osfcostumerentals-dot-org. The navy rayon dress is there and it's not lovely._


	4. Chapter 4

"What did you say?" Amy snapped. She felt the tension in her face that told her that her lips had gone white with fury and her nostrils were flaring. She hadn't heard what she thought she'd heard, had she?

The man looked at her, genuinely startled. "I told your boy to get back to work. What's the problem?"

"He doesn't work here," Amy said coldly. "He's a customer, the same as you."

"You can't be serious." The man chuckled. And then seeing Amy's expression, sobered. "You're letting a colored boy sit at a table? You can't imagine that we would eat in a restaurant that served ni…"

The woman with him tugged at his arm before he could finish the word and whispered urgently in his ear.

"I'm not making a scene," he told her impatiently. "This is a decent place. I've eaten here before. I'm sure Ralph would never countenance—"

"Ralph is no longer here," Amy interrupted him. The boy had slid out of the booth and was standing next to the table, head down, staring at the ground. "Sit back down," she ordered.

"Ma'am, I can go around to the back," he said, voice quiet. "It don't bother me. I don't want to make no trouble for you."

"You're not," Amy told him. They were drawing an audience, though. All eyes in the diner had turned their way, the men at the counter turning in their seats, Mr. Smith craning his neck to see off the side of his table.

The man looked from her to the boy and back again. Voice dripping with disbelief, he said, "Ralph runs a respectable establishment. I've never complained about the Negro servers. But Negro customers? That's going a bit too far."

Amy could feel the heat in her cheeks, the burn of anger. She looked the man up and down, trying to hold onto her temper. And then she looked at the girl. "Respectable?"

Suddenly Rory was by her side, touching her shoulder, trying to break her out of the fog of rage that had enveloped her. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's fine. Just let it go."

"It's not okay," she snapped. She glared at the man standing in front of her. The girl with him hadn't seen it, she was sure. Too young, too sweet to think of it. But there was an impression on his fourth finger, left hand, that any woman over age 30 would have spotted immediately. "Respectable?" she asked poisonously. "Would your wife think so?"

"Amy!" Rory grabbed her arm. Tugging her away, he pulled her toward the back room as Mr. Smith slid out of his booth and stepped forward, a jovial smile on his face.

"Stop it," Amy hissed at Rory.

"We have to live here," he hissed back. "We have to run this business."

"I'm not running some racist, segregated—" Amy paused. Where were the words? How could she express how horrified she was? What was the vocabulary that meant worse than racist, that meant corrupt and evil and goddamned creepy?

Apart from Rory, her best friend, for her entire life, had been Mels. Mels was – well, damn, it was complicated. Mels was her daughter. Mels was River. But when they were kids, it had been much simpler.

Mels was not white. In some other time and place, other definitions might have been needed: what exactly was she? But in England, circa 2005, mixed ethnicity just meant not. Not typical. Not normal. Not accepted.

Amy had been fighting Mels' battles with her since they were five years old. It made sense that the idea of running a business that wouldn't allow Mels as a customer would enrage her, she could see that in some logical part of her mind that was sitting above the fray calmly assessing the situation. But the part of her mind that was here? That part of her wanted to kill, to rip the eyes out of the supercilious man standing in the aisle of the café looking confused, to scream and yell and punch Rory because he was pulling her away from her real target.

Mr. Smith was escorting the man and his stupid juvenile girlfriend to the door, his face cheerful but his eyes cold.

"I know, I know," Rory was saying. He was trying to console her.

"Wait," snapped Amy. "Where did he go?"

The boy, the subject of her fury, was gone.

Not just gone, as if he'd somehow slipped out the door when they weren't watching, but gone gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

At the door, Mr. Smith tilted his head. His smile might have been meant to be kindly, but it didn't look kind, it looked fierce. He shook the hand of the man, who still looked confused. He patted the arm of the girl, who looked worried and doubtful.

And then with the ring of the bell above the door, he helped them out.

_A/N: So I wimped out on this story for a long time. You can kinda tell that I did, from that "ni" up there – those first few paragraphs got written and rewritten and rewritten again. I have to think, though, that dealing with the casual racism and sexism of the 1940s would absolutely be the hardest part of living in the past for Amy. Anyway I hope to not get hate-reviews, and to not leave as long a break until the next chapter. But if you want me to write more, please say so! _


	5. Chapter 5

_An interlude_

"It must have been a weeping angel," Amy muttered.

"Amy, love." Rory sighed. "Go to sleep."

Amy stared up at the ceiling. She couldn't see it in the darkness, but she knew it was there, with its cracked paint and water stains. "We should leave the lights on."

"I can't sleep with the lights on." Rory's voice was patient but there was an edge to it that told her the patience wouldn't last much longer.

"Seriously, though, if we can't see the angels, we can't stop them. They could kill us in our sleep."

"Or we could die from lack of sleep." The edge was deeper. Rory shifted in the bed, putting his arm over her, a heavy weight on her midriff.

"Maybe I could just turn the light on for a minute? Just to check?" Amy could hear the waver in her own voice and she hated it, hated it, but the reality was, she was scared. She'd lost too much already. The Doctor, River, her family, her life in London. She couldn't lose Rory, too. And a weeping angel, if it didn't kill her outright, could send her hurtling through time without him.

"It wasn't the angels." The edge was gone, the patience back. "I know it was freaky, the way the kid disappeared, but we would have seen an angel. And it couldn't have been an angel anyway. Half a dozen people were watching. An angel would have been frozen."

"Weeping angel," Amy corrected him.

"Right." Rory sighed again.

"It's just—I don't know, I like the idea that there might be nice angels out there. I want to believe in good angels. I don't want the word to only mean evil, scary, terrifying, violent monsters. I want there to be good in the world, in the universe, not just—"

Rory's arm slid up, hand stroking gently until his finger found her mouth and pressed against her lips. "I know. I know," he said soothingly.

Amy closed her eyes, feeling like an idiot and wishing she wasn't one. But the boy had disappeared, she reminded herself. Right in front of her eyes. If it could happen to him, who's to say it wouldn't happen to her next? Or worse yet, to Rory?

"Now, please. Please can we get some sleep?" Rory asked plaintively.

"I'll never leave you," she said abruptly. "Not again."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"You know," she said. "When I left before. Because I thought you should have … should be … because. You know. But I won't do it again."

"I know that." Rory shifted again, rising up on one elbow. She couldn't see him in the darkness except as a vague shadow silhouetted by the meager light of a streetlamp outside their window, but she could feel his gaze searching her face.

"I just mean—if I'm gone some morning, some time, it won't be because I chose to go. It'll be … that it got me. Whatever it was."

Rory dropped back onto the bed, his sigh this time completely exasperated. "You're not going to get over this until we find out what happened to the kid, are you?"

"Probably not, no," she answered in a tiny voice.

"All right, if I promise that tomorrow, we will close the diner early, and we will sit together at a table and go over absolutely every possible way the boy could have disappeared one hundred times each and think of every possible way we could get into contact with River and the Doctor and every possible solution to how to find the boy again, if I promise that, swear on my honor, hours and hours of talking about it tomorrow, will you please, please, please let us get some sleep right now?"

Amy's smile was almost as tiny as her voice had been, but it was there. Somehow, having Rory be vexed with her felt reassuring. It felt familiar. It felt safe. "All right."

"Thank you," he grumbled. And then his arm fell around her again, pulling her close, and he whispered in her ear. "I won't let go, love. I won't ever let go."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: This chapter comes to you courtesy of TheInvisibleLlama, who was the only person to review the last chapter, but who managed to single-handedly motivate me to keep going. Thanks, TIL! And pfft to the rest of you lazy readers. (jk - I am not a "hold the story hostage to reviews"type of author. But I do find reviews motivating!)_

* * *

"Weeping angels."

"No," Rory said firmly. "Not possible."

Amy scowled.

"We didn't see one." Rory tapped the pen he was holding on the table. "A full-size marble statue in the middle of the diner would have been hard to miss. And we've got no reason to believe that angels can turn invisible."

"Weeping—," Amy started to correct him.

"Yes, yes," he replied. "Weeping angels, not angels, I get it. The point still holds. If they could suddenly start turning invisible and wandering wherever they wanted, we'd be dead already and not having this conversation. So it wasn't a weeping angel."

Amy felt her lower lip sliding out in a pout, but still, he was making sense. She wanted to blame the weeping angels because the familiar, if terrifying, enemy was at least a known quantity. But she hadn't seen a statue any more than Rory had. "What else could it have been?"

"The Silence?" Rory suggested.

Amy drew back, appalled. "The—but—you—ugh," she spluttered. "Really?"

Rory shrugged. "I doubt it, to be honest. It doesn't seem their style. But in 1938, they ought to be around, right?"

Reflexively, Amy glanced at her forearms. No slashes of dark ink told her that she'd been marking her skin to remind herself of the aliens that she would forget as soon as they were out of sight. She fumbled in her pockets, checking to be sure that she was holding a pen. She was. So if she'd seen one she could have written on herself, but she hadn't. She didn't think it was the kind of thing that she'd forget to do. Besides …

"I don't think they'd be bothering with us," she told Rory. "Not yet, not in this time. Why would we be important to them? They shouldn't know who we are. Couldn't. It's too early."

Rory patted his shirt pocket. He had a pen on him, too. He turned his arms out, rolling up his sleeves with casual ease. No marks. "Let's check again in an hour," he suggested.

Amy nodded, gritting her teeth. The Silence or the weeping angels? She hated both options. There had to be something else. "What about the Zygon? Do you remember the Doctor telling us about them? They're shape-shifters, right? Maybe one of them …" She let her words trail off, as she realized that if the boy was a hostile shape-shifting alien, then probably she didn't want to find him again anyway.

"I don't think shape-shifting and invisibility are the same thing," Rory responded mildly. "We would have noticed if he'd transformed into something or someone else."

"Those shadow creatures?" Amy suggested. "The Vashta-whatevers?"

"Would leave traces behind."

Amy chewed her lower lip, trying to remember all of the aliens the doctor or River had ever mentioned. Not Daleks, not Cybermen. She couldn't think of any others who could make a boy mysteriously disappear.

Rory seemed to be having the same problem. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hallucination?" he finally suggested. "Like that time with the Dream Lord and the psychic pollen? That felt pretty lifelike."

Amy snorted with laughter. "If this is a hallucination, the blisters on my feet from standing all day are just a little too real."

Rory's answering chuckle was rueful. "Yeah, the burns from that damn grill feel pretty real, too." He turned his hand to show off the minor red splotches he'd accumulated in his weeks of cooking. Most were old; he'd already grown far more adept with the spatula.

Silence fell between them. Rory looked at Amy. Amy looked back at him. Her eyebrows rose. He shrugged. She sighed.

"We got nothing," she said gloomily.

"Tell me again about your conversation with the boy," Rory said.

"I've told you everything," she complained. "Word for word, every bit that I can remember. He was in jail in Montgomery County, Alabama, for kissing a girl or robbing a bank, I'm not sure which."

"Kissing a girl?" Despite having heard the story half a dozen times, Rory still sounded skeptical.

"I don't know." Amy shook her head. "I know it sounds wacky, but that's what I thought he meant. It was as if kissing a girl was so dangerous that when he got caught, he had to pretend to be a criminal instead."

Rory scratched his head. "The Yanks have got some strange laws, but I don't see how that makes sense."

A knock on the plate glass of the front door interrupted them. Amy peered around the edge of the booth. Mr. Smith, their most regular customer, stood outside, hat in one hand, other hand above his eyes, peering in.

"Huh," Amy said. "It's Mr. Smith. But he doesn't usually come by on Saturdays."

The diner was open six days a week, from 6AM to 3PM. Most of their clientele were workers from the surrounding area, and Saturday was their slowest day. Amy had plans for how they could improve that: hangover remedies, eggs benedict, and blueberry pancakes, and she thought they could pull in a weekend crowd, too, but she was waiting to suggest it until Rory stopped burning the bacon. Today, a Saturday, as Rory had promised, they'd closed early, shutting their doors at 1, and letting the last of the lunch crowd let themselves out.

"Do you want to see what he wants?" Rory asked. "We could ignore him. The Closed sign is up."

"No, I'll check." Amy stood. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, a friendly smile on her face, but she didn't step aside to let Mr. Smith in. "I'm afraid we're—" she started.

"I'm so sorry to—," Mr. Smith spoke over her. They both paused, and in the silence that followed, they both smiled. Amy felt like her smile was awkward and graceless, but Mr. Smith was as smooth as always as he said, "I can see that you're closed, and I don't want to disturb you, but I—"

He paused. Amy's eyes narrowed. Most of the time, Mr. Smith looked innocuous. He was the classic almost invisible man, friendly and gentle, the kind of guy no one ever noticed. Your eyes would slide over him in a crowd as if he wasn't even there. She liked him, though.

Oh, she'd found him a little too friendly at first—he asked far too many questions that she didn't want to answer. But once they'd gotten used to each other, they'd established a nice rapport, one that on the surface held mild flirtation but that was friendly underneath. And she'd seen unexpected depths in him the day he'd helped her kick out the creepy racist. Today, though, his calm held an edge of desperation that was unexpected.

"Have you heard from Imogen?" He blurted out the words, without even trying to make the question sound casual.

Amy stared at him. He asked the question every time he came in. Always, though, as if it were nothing special, just like asking the time of day. "I—no."

"She didn't come by for her last paycheck?" he prompted her. "A reference check? No call from a new employer wanting to be sure she's reliable?"

Amy shook her head.

He closed his eyes and for a moment she could see despair in the lines of his face. And then he opened his eyes again and the despair was gone as if it had never been. "Well."

Amy tilted her head questioningly, and Mr. Smith smiled at her, a calm, friendly, invisible sort of smile. "I'm so sorry to have bothered you," he said, taking a step back. He reached for his head, as if he was going to tilt his hat at her, and then realized that his hat was still in his hand and chuckled sheepishly. "I'm sure you have better things to do then—"

"Oh, no, you don't." Reaching out, Amy grabbed his wrist and began to tug. "Get in here."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Many, many thanks to the lovely reviewers of Chapter 6. Your kind words are all that alleviates the guilt of knowing that I really ought to be working instead of writing fanfic. My guilty pleasure is made much more of a pleasure when I know that other people enjoy the result! _

* * *

"I'm so sorry, I don't, I mean I, well, I didn't want to interrupt. I did see the Closed sign. I don't mean to disturb you during your leisure hours. I'm sure those are few and far between when you run a business like this one." Surprise had Mr. Smith almost babbling at first but his sentences quickly became smooth and coherent as the shock wore off.

Amy ignored him as she towed him back to the booth where she'd been sitting with Rory, midway down the restaurant. "Sit," she ordered, giving Mr. Smith a gentle shove into the booth next to Rory, before she took the seat opposite them.

Rory slid over obligingly, but his eyebrows raised. Amy shook her head at him, just a trifle, just enough to let him know that she really wasn't sure what she was doing.

"Oh, we're happy to have you join us," Rory spoke up hastily. Without looking at Amy, he tilted his arm upward. She glanced at it as well. No black marks. He hadn't seen the Silence.

"I—well—I—," Mr. Smith sighed. "Yes."

For a moment, there was an awkward pause. Then Amy took the initiative. "Why are you here?"

"I—," Mr. Smith shook his head. For a moment, the desperation showed in the lines around his mouth. Then he smiled, and said, almost cheerfully, "I'm afraid that my job is sending me to London. I'll be leaving next week, so I'm …" He paused, and smoothed his hair. "Well, I have limited time in which to make my good-byes."

Amy bit her lower lip, eyes intent on the mild-mannered man. She tried to picture Imogen. She'd thought of the woman as mousy, but did Imogen have the same invisible quality as Mr. Smith? As if she could disappear whenever she wanted to?

"Well, we appreciate you coming by?" Rory said. Amy could hear the question at the end of his sentence. He didn't understand why Mr. Smith was here. And neither did she, not really. But she had a feeling that she was missing something, something that she ought to be able to figure out.

"If you're leaving…" she started.

"Yes?" Mr. Smith asked.

"It's, I'm sure, obvious, that we're strangers here," she said. Then she paused, waiting for his response. He glanced at Rory, who nodded encouragingly, even though it was clear that he hadn't the faintest idea where Amy was going.

"Well, yes." Mr. Smith chuckled. "The accents, the clothes, the, er, rather different philosophy. Yes."

Amy's mouth twisted. Did she want to ask? But she ignored the temptation to find out more about what he'd noticed. "If we have questions, do you think – could we ask you about some situations that we don't understand?"

"Certainly." Mr. Smith sounded almost jovial.

Amy's lips twitched. She could see that he was relieved that she wasn't going to ask him personal questions, but she had every intention of getting there eventually. She was just going to take the roundabout route. "The boy that was here a few days ago," she said bluntly. "He had this crazy story about getting caught kissing a girl but the bank manager accusing him of robbing the bank to cover it up. What was that about?"

"Oh." Mr. Smith leaned back in the booth, not quite recoiling but withdrawing from the question as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "In the south, was it?"

"Alabama," Amy confirmed.

"A white girl?"

"I think so, yes."

Mr. Smith nodded. "Here, well … " He looked as if he were trying to find the words to say what he wanted to say, but then he shook his head. "I wish I could say it was unusual, but there are still a few boys lynched down south every year. Have you ever heard of James Irwin?"*

Amy shook her head mutely. Rory did the same.

"Fingers and toes cut off, teeth pulled out, castrated, burned alive," Mr. Smith said brusquely. "Just a few years ago. Needless to say, he didn't have a trial, and no one knows whether he actually did what he was accused of. Not that it matters. A court of law might have hung him, but they wouldn't have tortured him the way the lynch mob did."

Amy swallowed hard, feeling a surge of nausea as she pictured the boy, her boy, suffering that fate. No wonder River had sent him to them.

"It's better up here," Mr. Smith said. His gaze dropped to the table and he folded his hands in front of him. "Although not…"

Amy blinked. She wanted him to feel free to speak. Tentatively, she asked again, "You do understand that we're not from around here, right?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Smith responded, his smile looking only a little forced.

"What happens to black and white people who, um, get involved here?"

His smile turned into a bitter stretch of his lips over his teeth. "They don't."

"What does that mean?" Rory asked. "Surely people fall in love? That can't be illegal."

Mr. Smith's chuckle was dry. "Forty-one of the fifty states have or have had anti-miscegenation laws that make it a crime for people of different races to marry. The government legislates love in this country. In Alabama, well, it'll probably be the 21st century before Alabama lets blacks and whites marry." **

"That's crazy," Rory muttered, but Amy's eyes were steady on Mr. Smith. She had an idea. An idea about Mr. Smith and his search for Imogen. And an idea about what had happened to the boy, whose skin had been more the lovely coffee tones of a mixed-race child than Imogen's darker hue.

"It bothers her more than it does you, doesn't it?" she said gently.

"I think it's stupid," Mr. Smith snapped. "What difference does it make? In every important way, we're alike. We understand each other. She could be purple and I'd still …" He let the words trail off.

Amy nodded, not saying anything. Rory's eyes had grown wide. "I forgot the most important thing he said," she told Rory, inwardly cursing herself. "When he got here, he told me that River had sent him here to find his mother."

"His mother?" Rory looked from Amy to Mr. Smith and back again. "You think … ?"

She nodded. She did think. Suppose that their arrival had disrupted the time stream. Somehow actions they'd taken had reverberated into the future. River, by sending the boy back to them, was trying to clean up the mess they'd made. And she'd succeeded – maybe.

The fact that the boy had disappeared had to mean that the timeline had changed again. Either it had gone back to its original form – in which the boy grew up with parents instead of in an orphanage and never wound up in trouble for kissing a white girl – or maybe, he'd simply stopped existing at all. Maybe in this new timeline, he had never been born. Amy didn't like that option much.

Mr. Smith was looking confused. "He?" he asked.

"It's a long story," Amy told him, hoping he wouldn't ask more questions. "Not important." She waved her hand as if dismissing the details. "Tell me more about Imogen."

Maybe it was none of her business. Okay, it was definitely none of her business. But if Mr. Smith and Imogen should have had a baby, she was going to make it her mission to see that they did. And the slight pang at the thought of the babies that she would never have had nothing to do with it.

Mr. Smith sighed. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I'm off to London next week. I'll be there for years most likely. This business with Hitler – it's going to get ugly."

"Do you work for the government?" Amy asked, startled.

"No, no." Looking surprised and somewhat uncomfortable, he picked his words with precision, as he said, "Our government is strictly neutral in the European situation. I work for a private party."

Amy nodded. "Who is that?" she asked, trying to make the question sound casual, but really desperately curious. She knew almost nothing about America's early involvement in World War II, but she'd thought they'd mostly tried to pretend it wasn't happening for a few more years. Who could be planning ahead?

"Bill Donovan," he said. "Are you familiar with him?"

Amy exchanged glances with Rory to see if he recognized the name, but he looked as blank as she felt, so she shook her head.

"Mr. Donovan's a lawyer. Ran for governor of New York a few years back. I assist him with … inquiries. And business matters. Paperwork, that sort of thing."

Amy nodded, disappointed. That sounded boring, but who was she to criticize?*** Back to the important point. "If Imogen had been here, what would you have done?"

"Asked her to come with me," Mr. Smith said simply. "I'm from the north. My ancestors fought on the right side of the Civil War. When I say it doesn't matter, I truly mean it. But she's from Alabama, so she worries. In Europe, though—why everyone knows how popular Josephine Baker is over there. When she married a Frenchman last year, no one thought a thing of it."

"And you don't have any way of getting in touch with her?" Amy asked.

Mr. Smith shook his head. "She was always very careful. She didn't want anyone to see us together so she never let me see take her home. I know she lives somewhere near 7th Avenue. We've met at some of the jazz clubs before. But I can't ask about her. People down there are … careful. About strangers, I mean. No one would tell me anything. And—,"

"I could, though," Amy interrupted him.

He paused.

"Ask about her, I mean," she told him. "She worked here. I could look for her. No one would be surprised. I've even got a great cover story – I just want her to come back and work for us again." And frankly, if it didn't work out for Imogen and Mr. Smith, that solution would be fine by her.

"You'd do that?" Mr. Smith asked, his expression half grateful, half stunned. "Even though—,"

"Anything we can do to help the cause of true love," Amy said cheerfully. "Rory, darling, jazz club tonight?"

"Absolutely," he said fervently. "I can't believe I didn't realize this sooner, but we're in New York City. In the 1930s. Seventh Avenue, that's got to be the Savoy Ballroom, the Cotton Club, the Apollo. We could hear Ella Fitzgerald. Live. Live! Or Billie Holiday, Benny Goodman. You know, Jimi Hendrix won first prize at the Apollo's amateur night. I can't believe I haven't thought of it before. This is like—like—amazing. What an opportunity!"

"Jimi Hendrix?" said Mr. Smith. "Is he a saxophonist? I don't believe I know him."

"Ah, yeah, something like that," Amy said quickly, kicking Rory under the table. She didn't know squat about old music but she was pretty sure Jimi Hendrix wouldn't even have been born yet in 1938.

They quickly made plans to meet, later that night, Amy feeling relaxed and optimistic and grateful that she might be able to stop worrying about what had happened to the boy. But then as Mr. Smith prepared to leave, she realized she'd forgotten the most important question of all.

"Oh, wait," she called after him.

He turned in the doorway, looking back at her.

"What should I wear?"

* * *

_*True story. Honestly, I don't recommend you read this site – I think it'll give any sane person nightmares – but legendsofamerica dot com has extensive information on lynchings in the United States. They were horrifying. _

_**Wow, Mr. Smith must have been able to see the future! In fact, it wasn't until 2000 that Alabama finally decided to revoke its law making interracial marriage a felony. We ought to be horrified by that, but in fact, it was only in 1967—45 years ago—that the Supreme Court declared such laws unconstitutional._

_***Joke. She's wrong to be disappointed. And I hope this doesn't feel like a Wishbone episode, but every name apart from Mr. Smith and Amy and Rory belongs to a real human being!_


End file.
